in Aumsville, 12 miles southeast of Salem.
No one died. Yea!
The local plumbing store is no more. It was in the center of town and the center of the story.
And the damned news people from Portland are beside themselves with reporting on this exciting event.
I was trying to watch a Perry Mason episode while enjoying my lunch and "Breaking News" interrupted the show. For the rest of the day, tornado reporting was the show of choice on all the local channels.
The reporters were handling the crisis just fine, until they started talking. One guy said that tornadoes in Oregon were very rare. What wasn't rare was that he told us that at least five times in a three minute segment.
My son and I sat here making fun of the reports and the people giving them. It was the only way we could tolerate the traditional weather crisis reporting of the local media. They tell you the obvious and then tell you again. Just in case, you missed the first five times they told you.
One point that came up over and over again was that no one had died. Rather than a "Thank God" for that fact, the anchors on the various stations sounded disappointed. One even went so far as to talk about how many deaths in similar situations were caused, not by the winds themselves, but flying debris. There just wasn’t enough tragedy to report. And yet, it is wonderful that no one died!
Later in the day, the stations were all doing their evening news from Aumsville. Lots of reporters in town and now the anchor desk folks had arrived. The local ABC channel had their anchors doing their shtick across the street from the remains of the plumbing store. In the background, a local teenage girl made sure she got on TV. Walking behind the anchors and acting as if she was headed someplace important, she suddenly stopped, turned toward the camera with a big smile on her face and waved. Then reverted to her important walk. At that point the anchors were turning the story over to one of their reporters. From what we saw, it looked as if the reporter was in another part of town. But, no! Who should appear in the background? The teenage girl, on a walk to someplace important. She stopped, turned and waved. Yep, the reporter was probably ten feet away from the anchors. Clear across town. Aumsville is small, but it ain't that small.
And now, the day after, on the early morning news we have more from Aumsville. Fortunately the stories are a bit more thought out and the rambling reports are gone. Except for the commercials for the stations telling how well they handled this crisis and got the news to us right away. What do they use for highlights? Clips of reporters telling us the obvious once again.
I don’t know how the Perry Mason episode turned out. That is no big deal. I regularly fall asleep during the last fifteen minutes of the show and still don’t know who done it. I know it wasn’t Perry’s client. The client was not guilty of murder or murdering the news.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
HERD OF CATTLE?
“Yeah, I’ve heard of cattle.”
Or so the punch line of the joke goes. As I remember it.
What about a herd of worms? I heard of that too. In fact, we have taken up worm herding at our house. We bought a compost bin that works on worm power.
You put the food scraps in and the worms turn them into compost.
We are worm wranchers!
Much like real ranchers, we have to herd the worms. Initially, the two sides of the cedar box are empty. One side is filled with food scraps, shredded paper, compost and redworms. The other side is empty until the worms complete their work on the first side. With new materials on the empty side, the worms can migrate. Until that time, you have to herd the worms back to the starter side.
We lost a few head of worms during the first three days. The other strays I was able to move back to the working side. I thought about branding the little critters but they won’t get too far and the chance of rustlers coming through town is very slim. Besides, how do you know which end of the worm to brand?
Or so the punch line of the joke goes. As I remember it.
What about a herd of worms? I heard of that too. In fact, we have taken up worm herding at our house. We bought a compost bin that works on worm power.
You put the food scraps in and the worms turn them into compost.
We are worm wranchers!
Much like real ranchers, we have to herd the worms. Initially, the two sides of the cedar box are empty. One side is filled with food scraps, shredded paper, compost and redworms. The other side is empty until the worms complete their work on the first side. With new materials on the empty side, the worms can migrate. Until that time, you have to herd the worms back to the starter side.
We lost a few head of worms during the first three days. The other strays I was able to move back to the working side. I thought about branding the little critters but they won’t get too far and the chance of rustlers coming through town is very slim. Besides, how do you know which end of the worm to brand?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
BOGO and the grocery store
BOGO! or B1G1!
A marvelous marketing gimmick found mostly in grocery store aisles. Buy One! Get One! Buy one item and get an identical item for free. Two cans of chicken noodle soup for the price of one. Or, my favorite, buy one pork loin and get the second one free. Of course, the second one of the meat products is always the smaller size.
It is a good deal for the consumer, unless you do as I do and decide that by saving the money on the two items you now have money to spend on something else. The BOGO is a good deal for the retailer because they move product out the door and your money in the door.
There is a local area car dealer who has, in the past, run a BOGO on new cars. The ultimate loss leader deal. You get two very basic automobiles for the price of one. Not bad if you need two cars exactly alike.
My candidate for the world's best BOGO award is a merchant in Marysville, Washington. The merchant was in tune with the big Memorial Day weekend sales pitch. As we drove through town on 88th Street, we saw the perfect sign in the perfect location. With Old Glory waving in the gentle Sunday morning breeze, the sign stood out among the lush greenery on the property.
A marvelous marketing gimmick found mostly in grocery store aisles. Buy One! Get One! Buy one item and get an identical item for free. Two cans of chicken noodle soup for the price of one. Or, my favorite, buy one pork loin and get the second one free. Of course, the second one of the meat products is always the smaller size.
It is a good deal for the consumer, unless you do as I do and decide that by saving the money on the two items you now have money to spend on something else. The BOGO is a good deal for the retailer because they move product out the door and your money in the door.
There is a local area car dealer who has, in the past, run a BOGO on new cars. The ultimate loss leader deal. You get two very basic automobiles for the price of one. Not bad if you need two cars exactly alike.
My candidate for the world's best BOGO award is a merchant in Marysville, Washington. The merchant was in tune with the big Memorial Day weekend sales pitch. As we drove through town on 88th Street, we saw the perfect sign in the perfect location. With Old Glory waving in the gentle Sunday morning breeze, the sign stood out among the lush greenery on the property.
Memorial Day Sale!
This weekend only!
Two plots for the price of one!
Welcome to Marysville Cemetery.
This weekend only!
Two plots for the price of one!
Welcome to Marysville Cemetery.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
OLD MAN AND THE POPE?
After a year and half, an appropriate amount of time given the age group I have been working with, I have changed jobs.
My friend Mike said that God dropped a helicopter in my front yard and I better get on it. I have. Today was the first day on the job as sacristan/sacramental assistant at our parish. Our current sacristan had resigned and the deacon asked my wife if I might be interested. The helicopter landed in the front yard and I got on.
No diapers to change, not one whine or the cheese to go with it, and a new commute to work (five minutes one way).
The pay is better than the daycare job. It would take me another two years working with the toddlers to get to the pay of the new job.
I will miss the kids but I was ready for a change. There is no way I will be greeted at church in the morning like I was at daycare. “Mr. Tom’s here!” Lots of hugs then, “Read a book!” and “Sit down! Sit Down!” and “Row, Row?”, all followed by more hugs. Just won’t happen with a bunch of adults. That experience with the kids will be hard to match.
That’s okay, though. On my way into the church office I met two of the parishioners who frequent daily Mass. Both of them said hello and then congratulated me on my new job. Just about as good as all the hugs from the little ones.
All I have to do now is live up to the expectations that people have of me in this new setting.
I have gone from taking care of babies to taking care of God’s flock and their churchgoing. This means I should change the title of my blog. My daughter came up with the original title and with the definitive replacement. Instead of “Old Man and the Poop” it should be called “Old Man and the Pope”. I don’t know what Benedict XVI thinks of the title but I like it.
My friend Mike said that God dropped a helicopter in my front yard and I better get on it. I have. Today was the first day on the job as sacristan/sacramental assistant at our parish. Our current sacristan had resigned and the deacon asked my wife if I might be interested. The helicopter landed in the front yard and I got on.
No diapers to change, not one whine or the cheese to go with it, and a new commute to work (five minutes one way).
The pay is better than the daycare job. It would take me another two years working with the toddlers to get to the pay of the new job.
I will miss the kids but I was ready for a change. There is no way I will be greeted at church in the morning like I was at daycare. “Mr. Tom’s here!” Lots of hugs then, “Read a book!” and “Sit down! Sit Down!” and “Row, Row?”, all followed by more hugs. Just won’t happen with a bunch of adults. That experience with the kids will be hard to match.
That’s okay, though. On my way into the church office I met two of the parishioners who frequent daily Mass. Both of them said hello and then congratulated me on my new job. Just about as good as all the hugs from the little ones.
All I have to do now is live up to the expectations that people have of me in this new setting.
I have gone from taking care of babies to taking care of God’s flock and their churchgoing. This means I should change the title of my blog. My daughter came up with the original title and with the definitive replacement. Instead of “Old Man and the Poop” it should be called “Old Man and the Pope”. I don’t know what Benedict XVI thinks of the title but I like it.
Monday, May 17, 2010
HALLO, BUDDY
A new twist on the Nigerian money scammers. At least for me, it is. The usual message is in broken English from a supposedly highly educated individual. Misspellings and punctuation and grammar errors abound. This new version is in German, I believe, complete with the requisite misspellings and punctuation and grammar errors. I left most of the message in the delete file but if you wish to contact Sgt. Felix M. I am sure he will try to contact you in the near future.
Hallo Buddy,
Ich hoffe, meine E-Mail genьgt Ihnen alles Gute. Mein Name ist Sgt. Felix M. Ich bin
Engineering in der militдrischen Einheit hier in Bagdad im Irak, mit
Speiserцhrenkrebs, die alle Formen der medizinischen Behandlung verunreinigt hat,
und jetzt habe ich nur ьber ein paar Wochen / Monate zu leben, nach
medizinischer Sachverstдndiger. Mein verstorbener 2 Kollegen, die letzte Woche in einer Bombe gestorben
Explosion und ich fand eine riesige Summe von 75 Millionen Dollar USD in Bagdad Nachbarschaft
Klicken Sie auf den folgenden Link, um weitere Informationen:
Regards.
Sgt.Felix
Hallo Buddy,
Ich hoffe, meine E-Mail genьgt Ihnen alles Gute. Mein Name ist Sgt. Felix M. Ich bin
Engineering in der militдrischen Einheit hier in Bagdad im Irak, mit
Speiserцhrenkrebs, die alle Formen der medizinischen Behandlung verunreinigt hat,
und jetzt habe ich nur ьber ein paar Wochen / Monate zu leben, nach
medizinischer Sachverstдndiger. Mein verstorbener 2 Kollegen, die letzte Woche in einer Bombe gestorben
Explosion und ich fand eine riesige Summe von 75 Millionen Dollar USD in Bagdad Nachbarschaft
Klicken Sie auf den folgenden Link, um weitere Informationen:
Regards.
Sgt.Felix
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
SPRING BALL
My daughter spent the weekend with us. She reminded me that we needed to get the softball and mitts out and play some catch. It is that time of year. The only problem: Neither of us have played catch in two years. She ran off to Germany for a year and that is just too far for a pick up game. But now she is home and we can play catch again. Both of us admitted that we better get our throwing arms in shape or it was going to be a painful time enjoying this father-daughter rite of Spring.
I am looking forward to the game of catch as it is something for just the two of us. We forget about the problems of the world and just enjoy the time together, the fresh air and the marvelous sound of the ball as it hits the mitt.
I am looking forward to the game of catch as it is something for just the two of us. We forget about the problems of the world and just enjoy the time together, the fresh air and the marvelous sound of the ball as it hits the mitt.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
GOING GREAT
The other day, one of our little charges needed to use the bathroom. “I gotta go potty!” One of the teachers took the kid down the hall to the bathroom. Oops! False alarm. The girl didn’t have to go potty. She came back to the classroom and within one minute announced to me that there was a problem by the book corner where she was standing. Oops! She did need to use the potty. Soaked pants, soaked shoes and some cleaning to do.
The next morning the girl made the same statement, “I gotta go potty!” I took her down the hall with admonitions to her from all of the adults to make sure she used the potty. We arrived at the potty; she unbuttoned her pants and lowered them and her panties. Then she says, “I have panties just like my daddy.” All I could say to myself was, “God, I hope not.” As she is situating herself on the potty she says, “My daddy has a penis. I don’t have a penis. But I have a bottom.” And dry pants!
The next morning the girl made the same statement, “I gotta go potty!” I took her down the hall with admonitions to her from all of the adults to make sure she used the potty. We arrived at the potty; she unbuttoned her pants and lowered them and her panties. Then she says, “I have panties just like my daddy.” All I could say to myself was, “God, I hope not.” As she is situating herself on the potty she says, “My daddy has a penis. I don’t have a penis. But I have a bottom.” And dry pants!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
APRIL FOOLIN'
On the 2nd of April, the day after April Fools’ Day, I am at daycare, sitting on a couple of large pillows and leaning against the wall. Two kids are sitting on my lap as we read a book. They tire of the reading and run off to another part of the room to play.
Another child, Miss J. comes up to me and says, “Tom! Tom!” She is trying to get my hand and have me stand up. She has a good vocabulary so I try to get her to tell me what she wants. She is pointing to the other end of the room where the big foam blocks are. I presume that is her intended destination and that she wants to play with the blocks. She keeps grabbing at my hand and pointing to the block area.
I become more determined to get her to tell me what she wants. Miss J. keeps repeating my name and grabbing at my hand. I finally give up on the verbal communication and say, “Okay, I’ll get up.” Miss J. backs away so I can stand up. I start to walk toward the block area and then turn around to make sure Miss J. is with me, figuring she will want to hold my hand as we walk across the room.
She is not with me. She is sitting on the pillows and looking quite pleased with herself. Smug. Content. A woman wise beyond her years, all two of them.
There’s no fool like an old fool.
Another child, Miss J. comes up to me and says, “Tom! Tom!” She is trying to get my hand and have me stand up. She has a good vocabulary so I try to get her to tell me what she wants. She is pointing to the other end of the room where the big foam blocks are. I presume that is her intended destination and that she wants to play with the blocks. She keeps grabbing at my hand and pointing to the block area.
I become more determined to get her to tell me what she wants. Miss J. keeps repeating my name and grabbing at my hand. I finally give up on the verbal communication and say, “Okay, I’ll get up.” Miss J. backs away so I can stand up. I start to walk toward the block area and then turn around to make sure Miss J. is with me, figuring she will want to hold my hand as we walk across the room.
She is not with me. She is sitting on the pillows and looking quite pleased with herself. Smug. Content. A woman wise beyond her years, all two of them.
There’s no fool like an old fool.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
ζητώ
Try this word ζητώ
This Third Saturday of Lent was spent with about 30 other old men. Some a lot older, some not so much older and probably three other men who are still in their forties. We were all at church for the annual men’s retreat.
It was really a Day of Recollection as it started Friday evening and ended on Saturday at noon. We got to go home to our own beds at night. Just a partial escape from daily life.
It was a good time as the priest presiding over the activities was excellent. His name is Rick Ganz, SJ, a highly educated Jesuit with a great innate skill of relating stories about faith, tradition and life. He is glad to be a Catholic and it shows.
The theme of the retreat was simply “How do I know what is God’s will for me?” It is a more complicated answer that is made up of more questions. What is God’s will? What is my will? How do I know the difference? Why won’t God just tell me what to do? Did I miss what God told me to do? And on and on.
One of the words Father Rick referred to in the discussion is the Greek word ζητώ. The pronunciation as best I could find online: zito. It means ‘to seek’. Father embellished the meaning to ‘seek ardently’.
As Father talked about ‘seeking ardently’, I thought of my children and where they are in their lives. Each of them is seeking ardently but from different stages in life and with different views of the world.
My daughter is busy reestablishing herself in America after a year in Germany and also starting her own business in landscape design. A lot of changes in her life over the last year and half have caused her great joy, challenged her beyond her wildest dreams and helped her become an ardent seeker of… God knows what and soon my daughter will know too as each day unfolds.
My son is near the end of that wonderful time in his life where he realizes that his dad has learned a lot in the last eight years, ala Mark Twain. Not to mention the fact that he has learned a lot. He is seeking what we all seek at some point in our youth, the answer to “Who am I?” And he is getting closer each day. Looking for work in a slow economy is no fun and often disheartening. But he continues and is checking into the JobCorps as a viable route for schooling and job skills that make sense to him.
So Father Rick uses the word ζητώas a beautiful description of our seeking. Whatever my children are seeking or what I am seeking, it all comes down to "How do I know what is God’s will for me?”
This Third Saturday of Lent was spent with about 30 other old men. Some a lot older, some not so much older and probably three other men who are still in their forties. We were all at church for the annual men’s retreat.
It was really a Day of Recollection as it started Friday evening and ended on Saturday at noon. We got to go home to our own beds at night. Just a partial escape from daily life.
It was a good time as the priest presiding over the activities was excellent. His name is Rick Ganz, SJ, a highly educated Jesuit with a great innate skill of relating stories about faith, tradition and life. He is glad to be a Catholic and it shows.
The theme of the retreat was simply “How do I know what is God’s will for me?” It is a more complicated answer that is made up of more questions. What is God’s will? What is my will? How do I know the difference? Why won’t God just tell me what to do? Did I miss what God told me to do? And on and on.
One of the words Father Rick referred to in the discussion is the Greek word ζητώ. The pronunciation as best I could find online: zito. It means ‘to seek’. Father embellished the meaning to ‘seek ardently’.
As Father talked about ‘seeking ardently’, I thought of my children and where they are in their lives. Each of them is seeking ardently but from different stages in life and with different views of the world.
My daughter is busy reestablishing herself in America after a year in Germany and also starting her own business in landscape design. A lot of changes in her life over the last year and half have caused her great joy, challenged her beyond her wildest dreams and helped her become an ardent seeker of… God knows what and soon my daughter will know too as each day unfolds.
My son is near the end of that wonderful time in his life where he realizes that his dad has learned a lot in the last eight years, ala Mark Twain. Not to mention the fact that he has learned a lot. He is seeking what we all seek at some point in our youth, the answer to “Who am I?” And he is getting closer each day. Looking for work in a slow economy is no fun and often disheartening. But he continues and is checking into the JobCorps as a viable route for schooling and job skills that make sense to him.
So Father Rick uses the word ζητώas a beautiful description of our seeking. Whatever my children are seeking or what I am seeking, it all comes down to "How do I know what is God’s will for me?”
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST
Free at last! Free at Last!…
(With all due apologies to Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.)
I disconnected my Facebook account recently. I am no longer friends with my friends. Sure feels good not having that to look at, get messages from folks I do not know, etc.
I feel better about disconnecting from Facebook than I did joining it. The only reason I joined Facebook was to try to find a friend from my Air Force days. Facebook served its purpose. I have his email address now so I don’t need the Facebook connection.
The only people I told about my disconnect from Facebook are two friends from high school, Mike and Peter. Mike is not on Facebook. Peter is and we became friends on Facebook. Somehow that is different than becoming friends over 40 years ago.
Peter responded to my declaration of freedom.
“Good for you. I was thinking the same thing about Facebook today -- but how do you "disconnect"? Do you send out one last message to everyone? Is there a protocol? Will your "friends" miss you?”
I took some time to find it, but there is a button to disconnect. You go to the help section and type 'disconnect' (Facebook talk for "get me out of this crap!"). They give you directions to the right spot to hit the disconnect button. Of course, if you aren't sure, they ask you if you aren't sure and then give you the opportunity to disconnect or disconnect permanently. Much like stopping the newspaper delivery while you are on vacation. You can always start up again where you left off. If you decide for the permanent disconnect, it goes into effect immediately but stays available for 14 days. At that time you will be disconnected permanently and your friends will be forever gone.
If you opt for the not so permanent disconnect, your profile and friend connections hang around longer than the 14 days of permanent disconnect.
There is probably a twelve-step program in this. You would have to join it online, but what the heck. One vice for another.
I don't know if there is a protocol to quitting Facebook. I quit. The friends haven't noticed. They weren't really my friends after all.
My wife didn’t know I had quit Facebook and she is my best friend. But, as she was going through her Facebook page after we got home the other night, she asks, "You quit Facebook?'
"Yep, how did you know?"
"Nancy says you dumped her." We hadn't seen Nancy in over 30 years. She was the adult altar minister at Barb's aunt's funeral. Nancy comes up to us after Mass and says, “You probably don't remember me but I remember you."
My wife and I had been in college with Nancy and were involved in campus ministry with her. Her Facebook note to Barb was something about not seeing us for over 30 years and then just days after my becoming her friend on Facebook, I dumped her. (Yet another woman scorned.)
So at least one friend missed me. Otherwise, Barb hasn't heard anything from any of our mutual friends. Your friends will only miss you if they happen to look at their list of friends and don’t find you there.
Mike responded to my notice of disconnect with the wisdom of a computer geek:
“Good man, punch that Facebook in the... Well you know. That is such a vector for malware. I love it. Security issues are my main source of business nowadays. But I don't want to get bit myself so I stay away from those nasty social sites.”
And the next day, Mike says,
“Since your Facebook withdrawal, thought you might like to know that you are not alone. Check out http://tinyurl.com/ydkf6fj.”
I did check it out and, according to the article; I have committed social networking suicide. This sounds terrible. But then I remembered that I live in Oregon and physician-assisted suicide is legal here so I can be free of guilt (social, moral or otherwise). My doctor told me to get off Facebook for health reasons. Or he would have, had I talked to him about it. Close enough.
So I am off Facebook, Mike has stayed away from it and Peter says,
“I just got added as a Friend by my baby sister. I can't quit now.”
Peter is right, of course. If your younger sibling wants to be your friend, you can’t say no. I have a younger brother who is on Facebook. He never responded to my request to be his friend. The request is probably still pending.
I don’t miss Facebook even more.
(With all due apologies to Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.)
I disconnected my Facebook account recently. I am no longer friends with my friends. Sure feels good not having that to look at, get messages from folks I do not know, etc.
I feel better about disconnecting from Facebook than I did joining it. The only reason I joined Facebook was to try to find a friend from my Air Force days. Facebook served its purpose. I have his email address now so I don’t need the Facebook connection.
The only people I told about my disconnect from Facebook are two friends from high school, Mike and Peter. Mike is not on Facebook. Peter is and we became friends on Facebook. Somehow that is different than becoming friends over 40 years ago.
Peter responded to my declaration of freedom.
“Good for you. I was thinking the same thing about Facebook today -- but how do you "disconnect"? Do you send out one last message to everyone? Is there a protocol? Will your "friends" miss you?”
I took some time to find it, but there is a button to disconnect. You go to the help section and type 'disconnect' (Facebook talk for "get me out of this crap!"). They give you directions to the right spot to hit the disconnect button. Of course, if you aren't sure, they ask you if you aren't sure and then give you the opportunity to disconnect or disconnect permanently. Much like stopping the newspaper delivery while you are on vacation. You can always start up again where you left off. If you decide for the permanent disconnect, it goes into effect immediately but stays available for 14 days. At that time you will be disconnected permanently and your friends will be forever gone.
If you opt for the not so permanent disconnect, your profile and friend connections hang around longer than the 14 days of permanent disconnect.
There is probably a twelve-step program in this. You would have to join it online, but what the heck. One vice for another.
I don't know if there is a protocol to quitting Facebook. I quit. The friends haven't noticed. They weren't really my friends after all.
My wife didn’t know I had quit Facebook and she is my best friend. But, as she was going through her Facebook page after we got home the other night, she asks, "You quit Facebook?'
"Yep, how did you know?"
"Nancy says you dumped her." We hadn't seen Nancy in over 30 years. She was the adult altar minister at Barb's aunt's funeral. Nancy comes up to us after Mass and says, “You probably don't remember me but I remember you."
My wife and I had been in college with Nancy and were involved in campus ministry with her. Her Facebook note to Barb was something about not seeing us for over 30 years and then just days after my becoming her friend on Facebook, I dumped her. (Yet another woman scorned.)
So at least one friend missed me. Otherwise, Barb hasn't heard anything from any of our mutual friends. Your friends will only miss you if they happen to look at their list of friends and don’t find you there.
Mike responded to my notice of disconnect with the wisdom of a computer geek:
“Good man, punch that Facebook in the... Well you know. That is such a vector for malware. I love it. Security issues are my main source of business nowadays. But I don't want to get bit myself so I stay away from those nasty social sites.”
And the next day, Mike says,
“Since your Facebook withdrawal, thought you might like to know that you are not alone. Check out http://tinyurl.com/ydkf6fj.”
I did check it out and, according to the article; I have committed social networking suicide. This sounds terrible. But then I remembered that I live in Oregon and physician-assisted suicide is legal here so I can be free of guilt (social, moral or otherwise). My doctor told me to get off Facebook for health reasons. Or he would have, had I talked to him about it. Close enough.
So I am off Facebook, Mike has stayed away from it and Peter says,
“I just got added as a Friend by my baby sister. I can't quit now.”
Peter is right, of course. If your younger sibling wants to be your friend, you can’t say no. I have a younger brother who is on Facebook. He never responded to my request to be his friend. The request is probably still pending.
I don’t miss Facebook even more.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
AUNTIE FRAN
We sent another aunt on my wife’s side of the family to back to God last week.
When my wife was 15 years old, her mother died. Auntie Fran stepped in as a mother substitute for my wife and her siblings. She lived to the ripe old age of 88.
Auntie Fran comes from a long line of strong women. Something she passed on to, her daughter, her nieces, her great-nieces, her daughter-in-law and her granddaughter through the years. They learned so much about becoming a woman, and more importantly, about becoming a lady: strength and grace, compassion and joy, love and respect, stubbornness and determination, and faith. All qualities of a woman, of a lady, who has figured out God’s plan for her in creation and giving life and love to those she meets.
I married into this family of strong women and I, like the other men in the family, have been blessed by Auntie Fran’s influence. Through our wives, our daughters, our nieces, our cousins we know what they learned at the feet of Auntie Fran.
When my wife was 15 years old, her mother died. Auntie Fran stepped in as a mother substitute for my wife and her siblings. She lived to the ripe old age of 88.
Auntie Fran comes from a long line of strong women. Something she passed on to, her daughter, her nieces, her great-nieces, her daughter-in-law and her granddaughter through the years. They learned so much about becoming a woman, and more importantly, about becoming a lady: strength and grace, compassion and joy, love and respect, stubbornness and determination, and faith. All qualities of a woman, of a lady, who has figured out God’s plan for her in creation and giving life and love to those she meets.
I married into this family of strong women and I, like the other men in the family, have been blessed by Auntie Fran’s influence. Through our wives, our daughters, our nieces, our cousins we know what they learned at the feet of Auntie Fran.
Monday, January 25, 2010
OLD MAN! Oh, poop!
Now that I am in my 61st year, I just had the 60th anniversary of my birth, this “Old Man” stuff has become very real. There are daily reminders of the onset of old age, starting with the morning glance into the mirror. Where did my hair go? And why is the little I have left so gray?
The normal aches and pains are more so. Recovery time is certainly taking longer, whether it is a pulled muscle or the common cold.
It is easier to get down on the floor than it is to get up. This happens everyday with the little ones I work with when we play ‘Ring Around the Rosie’. “Ashes, Ashes, We all fall down!” I make sure that I just kneel down. The kids are falling all around me in various dramatic poses. I have no desire to outperform them. I just try to get back up gracefully.
I have a reminder from my son as well. He is 22 and all wise in the ways of the world. After giving me directions on the freeway for taking the 9th street exit, he proceeded to get frustrated with me when I missed Exit 9. On that particular freeway there are several exits with street numbers as the identifier. He said ‘street’ and I have learned to take him at his word, after all, he knows best. Later, at home, while we were discussing my error in driving and following his directions I was told, “This is the problem, Dad. Your generation would only think 9th street when I told you 9th street. Jaime and me, we’re younger and we know 9th street means Exit 9 on the freeway.”
And the memory fades. While talking with my brother-in-law at Christmas Eve dinner about our trip to Europe, we were discussing Heidelberg, Germany. He had been to Heidelberg times years ago and was talking about different places in town to visit, most specifically, the castle on the hill. I could not remember anything about the castle or Heidelberg at all. I knew we had been there but it wasn’t in my memory. My wife and daughter assured me that we had seen the castle while in Heidelberg. I told my brother-in-law we had been to the castle. But I still didn’t remember it. A few days later my wife graciously and patiently refreshed my memory. My daughter absolved my forgetfulness by telling me that it was our first day in Germany and we were in a daze from the nine hour flight from Seattle and trying to adapt to Germany time. Yeah, right.
There is a good thing about being 60. I got the senior discount at Burgerville! Okay, it was only $3.60 off of the bill, but I’ll take it. The cashier asked me if I wanted the senior discount. I said, “Sure.” He said that he is reluctant to ask people as some folks have their pride hurt. I have some pride but not enough to turn down the discount. Burgerville, even though it is “inconvenient for most of America”, will be visited again by this old man.
The normal aches and pains are more so. Recovery time is certainly taking longer, whether it is a pulled muscle or the common cold.
It is easier to get down on the floor than it is to get up. This happens everyday with the little ones I work with when we play ‘Ring Around the Rosie’. “Ashes, Ashes, We all fall down!” I make sure that I just kneel down. The kids are falling all around me in various dramatic poses. I have no desire to outperform them. I just try to get back up gracefully.
I have a reminder from my son as well. He is 22 and all wise in the ways of the world. After giving me directions on the freeway for taking the 9th street exit, he proceeded to get frustrated with me when I missed Exit 9. On that particular freeway there are several exits with street numbers as the identifier. He said ‘street’ and I have learned to take him at his word, after all, he knows best. Later, at home, while we were discussing my error in driving and following his directions I was told, “This is the problem, Dad. Your generation would only think 9th street when I told you 9th street. Jaime and me, we’re younger and we know 9th street means Exit 9 on the freeway.”
And the memory fades. While talking with my brother-in-law at Christmas Eve dinner about our trip to Europe, we were discussing Heidelberg, Germany. He had been to Heidelberg times years ago and was talking about different places in town to visit, most specifically, the castle on the hill. I could not remember anything about the castle or Heidelberg at all. I knew we had been there but it wasn’t in my memory. My wife and daughter assured me that we had seen the castle while in Heidelberg. I told my brother-in-law we had been to the castle. But I still didn’t remember it. A few days later my wife graciously and patiently refreshed my memory. My daughter absolved my forgetfulness by telling me that it was our first day in Germany and we were in a daze from the nine hour flight from Seattle and trying to adapt to Germany time. Yeah, right.
There is a good thing about being 60. I got the senior discount at Burgerville! Okay, it was only $3.60 off of the bill, but I’ll take it. The cashier asked me if I wanted the senior discount. I said, “Sure.” He said that he is reluctant to ask people as some folks have their pride hurt. I have some pride but not enough to turn down the discount. Burgerville, even though it is “inconvenient for most of America”, will be visited again by this old man.
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